


in disarray, intoxicated ricochet

by blastellanos



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7868008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/pseuds/blastellanos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian's in a slump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in disarray, intoxicated ricochet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesaddestboner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/gifts).



> No slander intended. Titled from the song "Good for You" by Third Eye Blind. 
> 
> Based on the month of August, 2016.

It happens in Texas.

It always happens in Texas. Maybe it’s something in the water. Or that it started here. Or that the memories are as thick as the July heat.

Maybe it’s just because life sometimes has it out for Ian. Or perhaps it’s because of sense memory. So integral to Globe Life Stadium that it’s simply impossible to resist. That nervous skitter over his skin. Somehow the knock doesn’t surprise him.

Somehow he hates that he doesn’t.

He’s not a kid anymore, but Ian opens it anyways and wordlessly steps aside for Salty. Doesn’t bother to hide the resent on his face, because it’s easier than dealing with the thud and flutter of his heart. The feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And easier to keep his eyes hard and unfriendly when Salty’s big hand cups the side of his face, thumb right below Ian’s lower lip.

“What the fuck, Salty?” Ian says and is proud when his voice doesn’t waver at all. Salty-- Salty doesn’t seem to care that Ian’s glaring at him. In fact, Salty’s looming closer, forcing Ian to look up. He hates it, hates being short, feeling vulnerable. But Salty’s big.

Bigger than Ian and taller and wider and so close that Ian can see how Salty’s aged.

(Texas seems forever ago but the past should be in the past.)

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ian says and his voice breaks.

“Ian,” Salty’s voice is low and serious.

Ian tenses a little, feels it crawl up over his spine and coil tight in his stomach. Hot, embarrassed, somewhere torn between _want want want_ and _you can’t do this_.

He doesn’t bat Salty away but maybe he should. Because it’s like yesterday--like a million years ago--except now there’s the more prominent scrape of Salty’s beard and his mouth is a little more chapped and he’s so--

"What the fuck are you doing?” Ian jerks away and shoves Salty away although it’s more his palms contacting Salty’s solidness without really budging him, giving more the impression he’s running, backing up, giving ground.

“Ian, I miss you,” Salty says.

“Don’t,” Ian’s voice cracks as he says it-- begged, pleaded.

“I lo--”  
“Salty, god, stop,” Ian interrupts. He flushes with embarrassment. Sick twist of heat and want and feeling like _fuck_.

Salty does, though, falling silent, mouth set in a firm line.

“You know what I’m going to say anyways,” Salty says. His voice sounds so easy, like this isn’t a trouble for him at all. Like it’s not fucking _killing him_ like it kills Ian. “Preventing me from talking doesn’t make it not true.”

Ian feels the words twist, like a knife through his heart.

“I don’t-- I can’t-- I…” Ian stumbles over his words and then leaves.

It’s his room but it doesn’t matter.

*    *    *

He starts sucking after that.

Globe Life is cold and not like he remembers at all. He’s all sweaty palms and nervousness, feeling like Salty’s going to ambush him again.

It affects everything. He can’t hit. He can barely keep his focus enough to do anything. Just like back when he was in Texas and struggling. Too much drop in his shoulder and can watch the ball sky high but never far enough and down-and-out.

He’s suffering. He feels himself suffering.

He wonders if it’d be better if he’d le Salty stay.

He can’t go down that road.

*    *    *

They win the series versus Texas. It’s nothing to do with him.

*    *    *

At home, he tries to focus on his family. On the game.

On Tess and the kids.

On what he didn’t sacrifice in order to --

Ian knows he made the right choice. He knows it as he sits at the table and watches game film on his tablet, listening to his kids play out in the yard through the open window. But he’s still suffering. Can’t make a hit.

Can’t make anything because he’s not in the game. Ian’s all stuck in his own head.

Imagining Salty forming the words he didn’t want to hear. (Or does he want to hear them? They’re not kids anymore. They’re married with children and adult lives and Salty’s maybe here only for a year and doesn’t he want to go through all of this again?)

He tries to push everything out of his mind and focus.

But he still just sees Salty in his head when he closes his eyes.  
  
*    *    *

_Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it._

_“I love you.”_

_No no no no._

*    *    *

They’re swept by the Royals and Ian can feel it making him more and more disgusted.

They win a few, lose a few against the Sox they _have_ to win. Ian’s sure he makes some snarky comment to Salty about his former team, even though Salty just smiles and shrugs and says he has a few of them.

Ian doesn’t feel vindicated.

*    *    *

_Salty’s hands are warm, big, touch Ian everywhere. Make him feel small and powerful at the same time. Brings him to life in ways only baseball does._

_He never wants to admit that about himself, but he feels peace in Salty’s embrace. When he kisses him. When he feels consumed._

_And Salty, so big, so patient, opens him up and makes him feel everything, everywhere._

_Bright, hot, desperate, need. Ian lets Salty take it all. And moans his name out in endless refrain in the quiet heat of the night._  
*    *    *

They win the first one at Minnesota; but he doesn’t do anything.

Ausmus sits him out the second game. He has to _fix this_.

Which is why after he’s called Tess and spoken with the kids, he rolls his phone between his fingers and rubs the back of his neck, and in general fidgets and feels like everything is awful. Because Salty…

Salty _loves him_ and what the fuck is that?

Ian knows he doesn’t deserve it. And he doesn’t _want it_. But it’s the refrain that’s been echoing in his head. Since that night in Texas. Where Salty laid down what was absolutely true. He couldn’t prevent Salty feeling it. He can’t even convince himself it isn’t true.

Ian thinks he misses Salty. Like where the parts of him that still feel empty need to be filled by him. They had been before. He’d fought it down for so long but now knowing, the yawning chasm opened up inside of him. He’d promised himself upon hearing the news that he wouldn’t give in to it.

That he wouldn’t go down that road again. But then there’s _yearning_.

There’s so much _need_ that Ian isn’t sure he can handle it. Is that why? Is that what he’s been missing? This year, since Salty had been back, he’d been _better_. And this thing between them-- was it-- could it… matter? He tries to swallow it all down and well, he just feels overcome.

Sick, maybe. Sick of himself, mostly. Ian doesn’t know what to do.

Ian’s not play tomorrow but Salty is, so he tucks his phone on the nightstand and covers his face with his hands and tries to fight back the sudden broken feeling.

*    *    *

They win the game with Salty as the catcher. Everyone moving and Kinsler sits by himself in the dugout, mostly, with a clenched jaw and feeling so out of sorts. Lack of sleep and the day off.

At the end, they do their high fives and Ian lets his hand linger against Salty’s.

It’s not an apology But it’s the start of one.

He pushes his way into Salty’s room, pushes his fingers into his hair, and leans up to close the distance. To kiss Salty and feel his warm mouth. He feels Salty should be angrier, shouldn’t just put his arms around him. Swallow him up. Cling to Ian like he’s drowning.

Ian feels like he’s drowning.

Ian has to anchor himself against Salty’s shoulders and against the heat of him. Broad chest and just familiarity. It has to be this way. It makes him better. He has to believe it makes him better.

He lets Salty guide him back to the bed and feels like a teenager, rubbing against Salty like he can’t get enough. Get their clothes off enough, Salty’s hands against his bare skin, big thigh between Ian’s own. Feels a little dirty, a little slutty, as he rubs himself against Salty-- leaking precome and begging between breaths.

“Salty-- Jarrod-- please,” Ian’s voice is broken. Broken like he feels and relying on Salty to put him back together.

Salty knows where to put his hands. Knows where to touch Ian to make everything feel right. He feels the pieces fit back together. Like _kintsugi_ , repaired but not without the cracks still showing.

“I-- I fuck-- fuck, Salty,” Ian stammers the words out. Feeling close. His hands tight on Salty’s shoulders, blunt nails digging in.

“It’s okay, Ian,” Salty murmurs. Strong. So strong for him. Ian doesn’t stop, just lets himself fall in to it. And afterwards, when they’re laying there, sweaty and sticky and panting breaths, Ian kisses Salty’s shoulder and his bicep and still keeps touching him everywhere.

“You, too.” Ian says, sleepy and eyes closed. Salty kisses his temple and Ian feels him smile. Knows he knows what he means. That’s a comfort in itself.

*    *    *

Second time at bat, this time, he feels it. And he hits it in. Gets down, runners in, and he grins as he turns his head towards the dugout. Finds Salty’s curls among them and feels the catch in his chest in the familiar way-- like it was back then.

Somehow, they’d figure it out.


End file.
